A Perfect Life

by Mike Stewart

  The dough would have exactly two hours to rise.

  Kate went to her room to bathe. She went to prepare.

  Dinner was a celebration. Charles sat at the head of the table as Kate covered the linen cloth with platters of grilled tenderloin, vegetables sauteed in olive oil, fresh carrots and tomatoes. She returned with a large basket of yeast rolls—Charles's favorite thing in the world, according to his daughter—and set the basket at Charles's elbow.

  As Kate brought out the food, Sarah set the table with silver and napkins. Charles laughed and drank scotch and asked Sarah about school and friends. He was on his third drink since walking in the door an hour before. Kate noticed and brought out a bottle of Saintsbury Pinot Noir.

  Charles smiled and held up his tumbler. “I'll just stick with this, but you go ahead with the wine.”

  “No way.” She wanted him drunk, but not too drunk. Kate leaned down in front of Charles and changed her voice to imitate a carnival hypnotist. “Look deep into my eyes.” When she stood back up, Kate whisked away his tumbler of scotch.

  Sarah laughed at the trick.

  Charles colored a little. “Now hold on here.”

  “No way. I worked on this homecoming meal all afternoon, and that's a great bottle of wine. We're going to do things right tonight.” Kate turned to Sarah. “Right, Sarah?”

  Sarah nodded her head. “Right!”

  Charles raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.”

  Kate quickly took the tumbler to the kitchen. When she returned, she made a show of tickling Sarah as she guided the child to her chair. Sarah squealed with happiness. Her father was home, and, finally, she seemed to have won over Kate. Her father had instructed her to “build a relationship” with her new nanny. Now it was happening. All the quiet times when her father was away, all the awkward dinners with just her and Kate, were in the past.

  This was their life now. Her father would always be there; Kate would make gourmet meals and tickle her and play jokes; nothing else bad would happen.

  As Kate took her seat opposite Charles, Sarah said, “This is just perfect, isn't it, Daddy?”

  “You know, Sarah, I believe it is.”

  Kate smiled as she picked up a platter and speared a helping of grilled lamb.

  Dinner lasted over an hour, then Charles and Sarah went for a walk on the beach while Kate cleared the dishes and stored leftovers. She made quick work of it and headed for her room to change into a nightgown and robe. By the time father and daughter returned, Kate had arranged herself on the living room sofa—a glass of wine in one hand and a magazine in the other.

  “You two have a nice walk?”

  Charles held up his cast. He blushed a little at the thought of breaking his foot while drop-kicking the urn containing his wife's ashes out to sea. Kate was, after all, the only living being who knew what had happened. “I wouldn't exactly call it a walk. More of a sit in the sand. But we did have a good time.” He looked down at Sarah. “Didn't we, monkey britches?”

  Sarah gave him a look. “Stop calling me that.”

  He winked at Kate. “Wow. I can't believe you've gotten all that cleaned up already.”

  Sarah examined Kate's robe. “And she's already ready for bed, too. Are you tired from cooking, Kate?”

  The nanny smiled. “No, I'm not tired. Just wanted to get comfortable and do some reading. But, speaking of tired”—Kate glanced at her watch—“you've got about thirty more minutes before bedtime. I'm afraid it's time for a bath.”

  “I'm celebrating with Daddy.”

  Charles laughed. “Nice try. Hit the showers, monkey britches.”

  Sarah stomped out, making a show of feigned anger, and he laughed appreciatively. He walked to the bar to pour a drink. “You two seem to be getting along.”

  “I think we are. It took a while but I think we're going to be friends.”

  “Good. I'm going out on the patio. Call me when Sarah's ready to be tucked in.”

  “I will, but . . .”

  He stopped. “What is it?”

  She held up her glass of wine. “I was hoping you'd join me for a drink. I wouldn't mind hearing what's going on back in Boston.”

  Charles looked longingly out at the dark patio. Kate watched, thinking how the man had gotten used to being alone, how he'd grown accustomed to wallowing in private thoughts. He seemed to be living in some private world out there—living in the presence of ghosts more real than the breathing bodies inside the walls of his home. But after a brief hesitation, he walked over to sit on the opposite end of the sofa from her. He smiled encouragingly. “Of course. What would you like to talk about? I can tell you one thing, the weather down here is heaven compared to the cold wet mess in Boston when I left.”

  Kate nodded and prodded, carefully listening for subjects that seemed to spark Charles's interest and then pushing and pulling the conversation in whatever direction seemed most amusing to him. They had been talking for twenty minutes when Sarah came in and said good night. Charles left to tuck her in alone, but Kate knew she was on the right track when he came back, mixed another drink, and, without thinking, sat down and picked up their conversation where he'd left off.

  Kate's satin robe was proper—floor length, solid, tied at the waist. Her nightgown beneath the robe considerably less proper. Not slutty. Just low and high and lacy.

  She used a trip to the bar for more wine as a pretense to let her gown fall open—not too far, just enough—as she sat back down beside Charles. She was closer now. Close enough for him to smell her cologne. After all, the man had already downed half a dozen drinks. She smiled and looked into his eyes. He smiled and looked at her cleavage. He was forty-five; she was twenty-eight. He'd been in a loveless marriage and then alone. And Kate had always known, almost innately, that men can only take so much.

  “Your robe is open.” His words slurred a bit at the ends.

  She looked down. “Do you mind?”

  “No.” He smiled. “I don't mind, but Sarah . . .”

  “Sarah's sound asleep. Here.” She untied her sash and let the robe fall away. “Is that better?”

  Charles said, “I don't think this is right,” but his eyes continued to roam from legs to breasts and back again.

  “I've been thinking about you while you were gone.”

  “Really?” He slurred again.

  Men are idiots. “Sure.” She scooted closer. “Can I hold your hand?”

  Charles held out his hand like an obedient child. She took it in hers, slid his fingers beneath her top, and pressed his palm against her breast. All she said was “There.”

  He began to massage her breast and leaned in for a hungry, fumbling, overanxious kiss. When he pulled back, Charles whispered, “It's been a long time.” Kate reached over to squeeze his obvious erection, and he smiled. “Like riding a bike, huh?”

  She began to unzip his fly. “Tell you what, Charles. You're the one with the cast on his foot, so why don't you let me do the riding this time?”

  He kissed her harder, and all Kate could think was how easy it had been. It should have taken longer. He should, at the very least, have insisted on going to a locked bedroom. He should have done a lot of things.

  She was on top of him now, pulling off her lace gown, watching his eyes devour her perfect breasts even before his mouth reached her nipples. Kate smiled down at the happy drunk suckling her breast.

  Men, she thought, are such idiots.

  CHAPTER 40

  Scott told the cabby to drop them at the Plaza. Natalie looked surprised, then gently nodded. They went in through the famous front entrance, cut through the ornate lobby, and exited the side door facing Central Park. Scott pointed left. “It's a few blocks up this way.”

  “You know New York?”

  “Not really. I got a couple of mercy invitations for Christmas in the city when I was in prep school. Usually I had more self-respect, but I figured a free trip to New York during the holidays was worth a little compromise.”<
br />
  The day was bright but cold. Natalie turned up the collar on her coat. “I need to make a phone call. And we both need to eat.”

  “Sorry. Guess I'm on a mission.” Scott stopped and looked around. “What are you in the mood for? We're in the heart of New York City, land of ten thousand mediocre restaurants.”

  “I thought some of the best restaurants in the world were here.”

  “They are. A handful. It's just that we probably ain't gonna have lunch in one of the world's greatest, and the average eatery in New York is pretty average compared to what you'd find in New Orleans or San Francisco.”

  Natalie shuddered against the wind. “Just how many mercy invitations did you accept?”

  Scott smiled. “Two. The rest is . . .” He looked uncomfortable. “You do a lot of traveling when there's nowhere else to go. No home and hearth, so I drove and bused and hitchhiked all over the country in the summers. I could never afford Europe, but I made it from one end of America to the other.”

  “Well, Mr. Restaurant, pick a place. But first I need to make that call.”

  “Okay.” He stopped and looked down at the sidewalk. “Who do you need to call? I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

  Natalie turned to face him. “I wasn't asking permission. My cell's out of juice, and I need to find a public phone. And who I'm going to call is my business.”

  Scott took her elbow and turned left. “Let's try this way.”

  Two blocks down, he spotted a rare public phone and pointed it out to Natalie. She had a strange look on her face. “Okay. Wait here. This is private.”

  Scott nodded.

  Natalie walked to the telephone. She had memorized the number for safety. Turning her back to Scott, she used zero-plus dialing to place a collect call to Homicide Lieutenant Victor Cedris at the Boston Police Department.

  They reached the parking garage a few minutes past two that afternoon. Natalie carried a small suitcase and a computer case, Scott a bulging backpack. He approached a filthy glass cubicle next to the entrance. A small dark man sat inside smoking a thin cigar.

  “Hello.”

  The little man's eyes moved. Nothing else.

  “I'm here to pick up Cannonball Walker's car.”

  “Caneen boll?”

  Scott tried to enunciate. “Can-non-ball Wal-ker.”

  “Caneen boll?”

  Scott sighed. Natalie poked him in the ribs. “Say yes.”

  “What?”

  “Say yes.”

  Scott put his mouth near a round cutout in the glass. “Yes.”

  “Caneen boll, yes?”

  “Cannonball, yes.”

  The little man nodded and pointed over his shoulder. “Offeece.”

  Scott leaned in. “What?”

  Natalie rolled her eyes. “Good God. Who looked after you on those trips around the country? He's saying to go to the office inside.”

  “Oh,” Scott said, “thanks,” and smiled. The little man read the newspaper.

  Natalie took the lead, pulling Scott around the wigwag and into the dark garage. Bare bulbs glowed faintly around corners and behind concrete partitions. Cars were jammed into small spaces, with no more than a hand's width between them, making Scott wonder how the attendant opened the doors to get in and drive them out.

  As Scott wondered about such things, Natalie followed some innate sense of direction to a glassed-in office at the back corner of the first floor. Inside, another dark man—this one bald and round—sat at a gray metal desk flipping through stacks of small, white papers.

  Natalie knocked.

  “See the attendant.” His accent hovered somewhere between French and Arabic.

  She knocked again.

  He didn't look up. “See the attendant.”

  Now she banged on the glass door.

  “Goddammit!” He got uncomfortably to his feet. “I said to—”

  Natalie matched his tone. “We're here for Cannonball Walker's car. The attendant sent us to you.”

  “Tell man there to step up where I see him.”

  Scott joined Natalie in front of the glass door. He tried to look unthreatening.

  “Your hair supposed to be long.”

  “I cut it.”

  The round man nodded. He waddled over, turned a flip dead bolt, and waddled back to his chair. He did not open the door. Scott turned the knob and gave it a shove, stepping aside to let Natalie enter ahead of him.

  The man ogled Natalie, but spoke to Scott. “You Cannonball's friend?”

  “That's right. Do you need to see some ID?”

  The guy acted as though Scott had asked if he wanted acid in his coffee. “No! No ID. Cannonball say you'll be here today. He say with curly hair and glasses, you be with a woman.” He shrugged. “Good enough for me.” The office was as cold as the street, but sweat beaded on the man's bald pate as he opened a drawer and fished out car keys. “Here. Give to the attendant. He get car for you.”

  Scott stepped forward and took the keys. “Thanks.”

  “Sure, sure. I got something for you.”

  “From Cannonball?”

  He shook his sweaty, round head. “No. Man stop by a while ago. Say you two eating lunch. Asked me to give you this.” He held out an woman's oxblood billfold. Natalie made a small yelp as she inhaled and reached for the wallet. She unsnapped it and looked at the license. The garage owner looked frightened. “Everything there. You check. Everything there. He say if I take anything, he be back.”

  Scott spoke first. “Is it yours?”

  Natalie nodded. “I had it on the train.”

  “Shit!” Scott turned to the garage man. “What did he look like?”

  The man ignored him. He was focused on Natalie. “Everything there?”

  Natalie flipped through papers and photos, credit cards and cash. “Yes. It's all here.”

  Scott's voice grew louder. “I asked you what he looked like.”

  The man shook his head, sending rivulets of sweat trickling down bulging jowls. “No way.” Scott took a step forward, and the man shook his head again. “You beat me up, but this man he kill me. Look, look, I'm doing Cannonball a favor. Doing you a favor. Leave me alone. Not my fault man came to see me. Not my fault he steal lady's purse.” He swiveled in his chair to fully face Scott, held his open hands in front of his belly palms down, and made a gesture like an umpire signaling a runner safe at home. “We done here. Take Cannonball's car and go.”

  Scott wasn't going to beat information out of an old fat man who'd done nothing wrong, and everyone in the room knew it. Natalie tugged at Scott's sleeve, and they left.

  Two hours later, Scott and Natalie were clear of the city and heading south. Fear gnawed at their stomachs. He felt cold and nauseated; so did she. Neither one mentioned it for the next two hundred miles.

  Natalie looked out at the Maryland countryside—pastures and timberland split by pavement and an invisible line of lingering exhaust. She broke the silence. “How'd you get her address?”

  Scott's mind had grown dull gazing at miles of interstate. “Huh?”

  “Kate's address. How'd you get it?”

  “Oh. I called Charles Hunter's office in Boston. The receptionist told me they've got a branch someplace called Spinnaker Island on the North Carolina coast. I don't have Kate's address. Just the office.”

  Natalie nodded. “Kate's got to be close.” She reached into the backseat of Cannonball's big Caddy and picked up a black nylon case. She worked zippers and Velcro and came out with a silver laptop. As she powered it up, Natalie repeated to herself, “Spinnaker Island.” A few minutes later, she asked, “P-E-T-R-I-N-G?”

  “Yeah. I think so. What are you doing?”

  “Googling Spinnaker Island and Hunter ampersand Petring.”

  “You can get the Internet on that thing?”

  Natalie shook her head in amused disbelief. “And on my Handspring, and on my cell phone. But I get full-screen graphics with this.”

  “Oh.” Sc
ott smiled. “Ampersand, huh?”

  “I may not have gone to Harvard”—she grinned at his teasing—“but, unlike some people, I do know how to use a mobile modem . . . Got it!” Her voice changed cadence as she began to read out loud. “Spinnaker Island, a different way of living. A simpler way of life we've all forgotten. A traditional village for the twenty-first century. Developed by Hunter & Petring, American Institute of Architects.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” Her fingers tapped keys. “Everything. Pictures, model floor plans, a map of the island. And”—she smiled—“a toll-free number to lease one of the ‘guest cottages.'” She paused to scan the sales literature. “They've got four cottages they reserve for . . .”

  “Sales prospects.”

  “Not the words they use, but yeah. So.” She fished a cell phone out of her purse. “You want a view of the Atlantic?”

  Scott smiled. “Why not?”

  “Why not indeed.” Natalie began punching numbers.

  The morning after Cannonball Walker called on Nancy Thomas, the phone in his hotel room rang at exactly eight thirty. Nine thirty Boston time. Cannonball was on his way to the door, heading downstairs for breakfast. He turned back to answer the ringing. “Hello?”

  “Is this Cannonball Walker?”

  The old man sat on his bed and sighed. “What can I do for you, De-tective?”

  Lieutenant Cedris paused. “You're good with voices. Or did Mr. Pastings at the bank tell you I'd be calling?”

  “Mister Pastings won't give me the time of day. I got a good ear.”

  Cedris paused. “I thought I advised you to steer clear of Scott Thomas.”

  “You thought wrong. You said he was in trouble. Asked me to give him a message.”

  “You're pretty sharp for your age, Mr. Walker.”

  Cannonball shook his head at the empty room. “And you're pretty sharp for yours, De-tective.”

  A thousand miles away, Lieutenant Cedris cringed a little. “Sorry. Look, I need to know where Scott is. His former boss at the hospital, a shrink named Phil Reynolds, was shot to death two nights ago.” He paused, but Cannonball let the silence linger. “Scott was there at the scene when it happened.” Again he stopped for Cannonball to say something, and again the old bluesman let him wait. “I'm sure you can see that it looks bad for Scott to take off after something like that.”